


Wounded

by Saetha



Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Graphic Injury, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Lots of talking about death, Papa Vesemir, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Protective Vesemir (The Witcher), References to Child Death, Soft Vesemir (The Witcher), Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Young Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, dimeritium, no beta we die like Geralt’s innocence on his first year on the Path, references to the sacking of Kaer Morhen, there is a hug there though!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha
Summary: Vesemir remembers the way Geralt had clenched his fingers into Vesemir's skin when he had carried him out of the cave after the Trials. He has always seen it as his duty to be the one to carry out the bodies of his boys, dead or alive. It was his hands that had shaped and prepared them; tried to give them every chance they could get to survive what lay ahead, to make them all survive, even if they never did. It should be his hands who buried them, as well. None of the others at the keep had ever fully understood, not until he met Guxart, another swordmaster.You might not have children of your own blood,Guxart had said, looking at him,but I know you have buried more of your sons than most towns will lose men in war.*Geralt has left Kaer Morhen for his first year on the Path and is soon confronted with the realities of a Witcher's life. Vesemir finds and rescues him and is confronted with having to try to teach his pup about the realities of living with failure.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir
Series: O Swallow, have mercy on them [Febuwhump 2021 Prompt Fills] [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138178
Comments: 20
Kudos: 56
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> I love Vesemir SO MUCH. I know, I know, in _Blood of Elves_ it’s stated that the Witchers actually left all the skeletons from the massacre to lie around in front of the Keep as a reminder and warning to themselves but you know what? NAH
> 
> Also I’m taking quite some liberties with dimeritium and its influence on Witchers here, for whump’s sake. Work with me, okay. Today's prompt was 'Imprisonment'. This is quite a heavy one, just so that you're prepared.

Vesemir had warned his pups.

 _‘Do not expect people to treat you with kindness’_ , he had told them. ‘ _They fear what they do not understand. They fear that which is different. Do not let their cruel jabs find their way to your souls._ ’ They had listened, but in their heart, they hadn’t understood. Vesemir knows it, because there isn’t that sheen to their eyes yet, that note of hurt and disappointment that all Witchers always return with from their first summer on the Path. Each year, when he sends them out, he hopes that some of them might get lucky. That they might not return with scars on their heart and marks on their souls but smiles on their faces instead.

Each year, he hopes in vain.

This year, it is Eskel’s and Geralt’s turn to venture out for the first time, and Vesemir’s heart aches at their enthusiasm and the brightness of the smiles on their faces. He sees to it that they are both outfitted with all the provisions they need, all the potions, gear, food and drink. Had even snuck their favourite treats into their saddle bags when they hadn’t been looking – a piece of honeycomb for Geralt, some honey-glazed blueberries for Eskel. He bids them farewell and hugs them goodbye and they leave, one behind the other, their laughter audible for long after they have disappeared from sight. The walls seem so much quieter when they are gone, despite the presence of the youngest set of boys and the last remaining of their tutors.

It is in the midst of summer that Vesemir knows something is wrong. He can’t say for sure how he knows – a series of dreams, a bad feeling in his stomach, the shadow of _something_ at the edges of his mind. The same feeling that had followed him for months before the attack on Kaer Morhen. It is not as bad, this time, but persistent, until he finds himself saddling his mare one morning because he can sit still no longer.

Vesemir even takes a contract on his way, a couple of drowners on the way south towards Aedirn. He stops in a small village, not far from Ard Carraigh, and it is here that he hears it for the first time, the words that turn his blood to ice. _They’ve caught themselves a Witcher over in Enkelsberg_ , the whispers say. _A white-haired one. Paid him to bring down a wyvern, but it snatched up the baker’s boy before he killed it. They say he didn’t even resist when they took him._

Enkelsberg is a small hovel nestled into the hillside towards the Kestrel Mountains. Its only remarkable feature is the old keep that stands at one end, barely more than two towers joined together. The houses seem to cower in its shadow which feels like it reaches all the way to Vesemir on his horse, reaching into his chest and slowly choking the air out of his lungs. Perhaps he is too late already. Perhaps they’ve already killed him. Perhaps they have murdered another one of his boys, one of the few he has left. And perhaps Geralt simply let them, let them do as they pleased, take his life in payment for the one he no doubt thinks he should have saved.

He decides not to enter the town openly. They have one Witcher in their dungeons already, they will hardly bid a warm or even civilised welcome to a second one. Vesemir chooses to sneak into the keep under the cover of darkness instead, easily incapacitating the guards on his way in. Security is almost laughable – they certainly don’t expect anyone to try and free their prisoner, and especially not a second Witcher to join the first, as rare as they are.

Vesemir makes his way down into the dungeon, noting the echo of old magic in the walls. This tower once belonged to somebody far more powerful than those occupying it now. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm his fluttering nerves. He is an old Wolf, has seen death so many times that he has feasted at its table more often than not- death of humans, death of monsters, death of his own kind. And yet, each of his pups who is cut down, who never returns to Kaer Morhen, is a slash deep inside him.

The stench is thick down here, of dampness, mildew and waste. Vesemir ignores the figure curled up in the first cell (a drunkard, judging from the smell), walks all the way to the last one instead where he catches a glimpse of Geralt’s white hair, dirty and matted as it is.

Geralt doesn’t look up when Vesemir approaches, not even when he calls out his name. He is kneeling on the ground, chains leading to the iron around his wrists and ankles, anchoring them to the floor. From further away it seems like there are no obvious wounds, but it soon becomes clear that he is anything but unharmed. Geralt is trembling ever so slightly, tremors racking his body that he seems to be unable to stop. The reason for it soon becomes clear, and Vesemir draws in a sharp breath when he sees the black lines pulsating under Geralt’s skin, emanating from where the cuffs are sitting on his wrists.

Dimeritium.

“Geralt!” he calls out again, louder, more urgently this time, already fumbling with the keys to find the right one so he can open the cell. Geralt shifts a little, groaning softly when the rusty door swings back in its hinges with a painful squeal.

“Geralt.” Vesemir reaches out to tip up his chin so that he can see his boy’s face, make sure that he is still conscious enough to get out of here with him. “Sweet Melitele, pup, what have they done to you?”

Geralt’s face is a flower of colourful bruises, his nose broken and one of his eyes swollen shut. There are dark rings under the other, as if he hasn’t slept since they brought him here. Geralt takes in a shuddering breath, his entire body going rigid with pain. The pupil in his one open eye barely changes, even as he tries to focus on the man in front of him.

“Vesemir?” His voice is barely more than a rasp. He sounds broken and lost and so terribly, terribly _young_ , reminding Vesemir with painful acuity of the quivering boy in his arms who he had carried into the infirmary after his Trials were over. He had sworn to himself that he would protect him then, his white-haired wolf cub, even though he knew he would never be able to keep his word.

“I’m here, my boy, I’m here.” Vesemir’s voice catches ever so slightly. His hands go back to the keyring, searching for the keys to the manacles. He notes how Geralt’s head falls back down to his chest as soon as his touch is gone, too weak from the poison in his blood to hold it up himself. Finally, he finds the right key and unlocks the cuffs, first around the ankles then around his wrists, taking care not to touch the dimeritium itself.

Vesemir barely has the time to set the cuffs and keys aside before Geralt keels forward with a strangled noise as the current of agony from the dimeritium is finally shut off. He catches him just in time, winces at how cold Geralt’s skin feels, at how his entire body is trembling under the thin clothes he’s wearing. He would kill them all for this, if it would make any difference. (Of course it doesn’t. It never does.)

“I couldn’t do it.” The words sound as broken as Geralt’s body, tumbling forward in a huff of breath. “I couldn’t save him. I didn’t know they would-“

“Shhh.” Vesemir keeps his arms slung around him. He wishes he could give Geralt one of his potions but doesn’t dare, not with the effects of the dimeritium still cursing through his system. The shock of the two interacting might be enough to kill him, weakened as he is. “We need to leave, get as far away from here as possible before sunrise. Can you walk?”

Geralt takes another shuddering breath before he gives a weak nod. He still doesn’t look at Vesemir.

“Get up, then.” Vesemir hates that he has to do this, but if there is one thing that Geralt might still instinctively responds to it’s an order from his old mentor. One of the first things every boy coming to Kaer Morhen learned was to obey this voice or feel the consequences, for everyone’s safety and sanity. He doesn’t loosen his grip on Geralt’s arms, tries not to wince at the low sound he makes when rising up on shaking legs. It soon becomes clear that Geralt will not walk out of the dungeon under his own power – he is too weakened from the effects of the poisoning and the beatings he must have taken and now that he is standing, Vesemir can see blood crusted on the left leg of his pants as well, likely a remnant from the fight with the wyvern. He curses, slipping one of Geralt’s arm under his shoulders, praying that no one will try to stop them. A child would have more chances of defending itself than Geralt right now.

They limp into the courtyard, Geralt doing his best to keep up with him even though his legs buckle every few steps. Vesemir finds his horse in the stables, together with his belongings. He doesn’t know how, but somehow he gets Geralt onto his horse’s back (‘ _Roach_ ’, Geralt mumbles, leaning against it and isn’t it just like his boy, to give his horse such a name). He thinks for a moment before grabbing a rope and tying him to the saddle with a few quick knots – he is loath to restrict him again after the time in the dungeon, but time is of the essence, and at the speed that they will be riding he cannot afford Geralt falling unconscious and dropping off his horse.

His own mare is waiting outside, and they are away quickly enough, Roach’s reins tied to Vesemir’s own steed. Vesemir can only pray that Geralt’s absence won’t be noticed any time soon and that the knots he used to tie up the guards with will hold until sunrise. They don’t stop riding until the sun is well over the horizon and their horses are shaking from exhaustion. There is an abandoned hunting cabin here that is mostly forgotten by the world, but well-known and frequented amongst Witchers looking for a dry place to spend the night and replenish a few of their supplies.

“Geralt.” He hasn’t moved the entire time that Vesemir dragged their supplies inside, his hair falling down in a long curtain in front of his face, hiding his features. Vesemir reaches out to untie the knots that were holding him on Roach’s back and curses when Geralt simply slides off the saddle, clearly barely conscious. Vesemir catches him and drags him inside – a Witcher he might be, but Geralt is twenty-four summers old and strong as an ox, not the lightest quarry to carry. His skin is still burning, although the black lines have begun to fade, barely visible anymore. It only makes his other injuries more apparent, the bruises, blood and raw skin, and Vesemir winces in sympathy.

Geralt shifts when Vesemir carefully settles him down on some musty furs on the floor, about to fetch a knife to cut off his shirt and pants so he can see to the damage.

“Vesemir.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

“Yes. Hold still.” Vesemir sucks in a sharp breath when he finally sees the full extent of what the wyvern hunt, the villagers, and the time in the dungeon have done to Geralt. It isn’t just his face that is mottled black and blue; they clearly made good use of the steel-tipped boots that Vesemir saw on the guards. He’s seen worse, although most of it was on dead men, and seeing it on Geralt’s body now…something unravels inside Vesemir, and he has to turn around, on the off-chance that Geralt is lucid enough to see his expression.

Looking after his wounds is thankless work. Vesemir tries to be careful, but Geralt is restless under his hands, screams muffled by the belt he gives him to bite on when Vesemir sets his bones. His entire body is shaking again when Vesemir is done, tying the last of the bandages around the stitched-up wound in his leg.

“Here.” Vesemir takes a bowl and holds it to his lips. There are none of the strong painkillers here like laudanum, so this is the best he has been able to do. Geralt chokes at the first sip, until Vesemir puts his arm under his neck, carefully helps him to hold up his head as he drinks. Another bout of trembling travels through Geralt’s body and suddenly, his fingers are clenched around Vesemir’s arm. Vesemir’s breath stills for a moment before he reaches out and pats Geralt’s hand, holds it until he falls into an uneasy, restless sleep. Only then does he stoke the fire a little, cooks a paltry dinner.

Vesemir remembers a much smaller hand on his arm, remembers the way Geralt had clung to him the one winter when he’d almost died of pneumonia, the way he had clenched his fingers into Vesemir’s skin when he had carried him out of the cave after the Trials. He has always seen it as his duty to be the one to carry out the bodies of his boys, dead or alive. It was his hands that had shaped and prepared them; tried to give them every chance they could get to survive what lay ahead, to make them all survive, even if they never did. It should be his hands who buried them, as well. None of the others at the keep had ever fully understood, not until he met Guxart, another swordmaster. _You might not have children of your own blood_ , Guxart had said, looking at him, _but I know you have buried more of your sons than most towns will lose in war_.

Geralt’s entire body suddenly tenses and he gives a weak cry, ripping Vesemir out of his heavy memories. Vesemir reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder to try and calm him. Geralt flinches away and it isn’t hard to guess which spectres are haunting his mind right now. He cries out again, dislodging the blanket that Vesemir had draped over him from his shoulders. His feet get tangled in it and he shoots up, eyes wide and terrified as he struggles against its grip.

“Easy, boy, easy.” Vesemir begins to draw the blanket away and gets a kick in his knee for his efforts, and another one in his gut right after. Finally, Geralt’s feet are free, but he still takes a while to calm down, to realise that he is no longer shackled and at the townspeople’s mercy. Vesemir sees to it that he doesn’t hurt himself and stays out of the way otherwise. Finally, Geralt’s one open eye clears and, for a long while, he simply sits there, staring into nothing, seemingly taking stock of his surroundings and the appalling condition his body is in.

“Where am I? What-” he finally asks, breaking off before he can finish his own question.

“Far enough away that they won’t find you.” Vesemir makes a sweeping gesture, indicating their surroundings. “You’re safe.”

“Safe.” The world makes Geralt looks up and Vesemir feels his heart break at the expression in his face. He has seen it countless times before. A part of Geralt died in that dungeon, the part that still believed in the good of all people, thought himself a hero, out there to protect humanity. In a way, the first year on the Path is the final Trial, just as painful on mind and body as the first one, even if it might show in different ways. Geralt looks away from him then, back down at his hands, the bandages around his wrists, his still trembling fingers.

“He’s still dead, isn’t he,” he whispers. “The baker’s boy. It wasn’t a dream.”

“No, no it wasn’t.” Vesemir knows what comes next, has seen it often enough. It doesn’t make it any easier to witness. Geralt’s hands start shaking more strongly first before his expression crumples, followed by the rest of his body. It is a false rumour that Witchers cannot cry, just like it is a false rumour that they do not feel pain – or love, loss, anything that a human might feel. To some of them, emotions might come more difficult than to others, buried deep beneath their scars. The Trials sever them from their own souls, and many need decades to rebuild that connection. Some never manage. But Geralt…

These might be the first tears he has cried since he woke up with white hair and a voice made of gravel, but they are no less real for their rarity. His chest rises and falls in great heaving sobs as he hugs himself and finally, Vesemir breaks. He walks over to him, this boy that he has seen grow from a small child into the Witcher he is today, his _son_. He wraps his arms around him, careful not to jostle any wounds, pulls his entirely-too-thin frame close.

“Shhhhh,” he says again, murmurs it into Geralt’s hair, carefully rubbing his back. Geralt doesn’t reply, but Vesemir sees his shoulders shaking, feels his sobs wrack his body, his face pressed into Vesemir’s shirt. He wishes he could take some of his pain away and onto himself, could spare him the mental and physical agony he is in right now.

It takes a long time for Geralt to quiet back down. Even when the crying stops he doesn’t move, just leans against Vesemir’s chest, eyes closed. Geralt’s heartbeat has always been the slowest of them all, after the second Trials, but now he looks to Vesemir’s to ground him. He doesn’t say anything, simply sitting there, the exhaustion and pain radiating off him in waves.

“I wasn’t there when they came to Kaer Morhen to murder us,” Vesemir finally says. His voice begins to crack, but he continues on. “I had been sent away to clean up the Killer, before the first recruits ran it in the spring, and the paths beyond, all the way to the mountains. Found some wyverns, drowners, nekkers, the usual. A griffin. A swarm of harpies. They were where the two waterfalls come together, and the cliffs drop off into nothing on the side. Not far from the blue lupine meadows. You know the place. Took me five whole days to clean everything out and make my way back.”

He pauses. When he closes his eyes, he can still the see the image, smell the smoke and acrid stench of decaying bodies. Geralt is still against him, but his heart is still beating, slow and strong.

“Knew something was wrong. Could smell it from miles away. Found the first bodies not far from the door – Gwyn, the bestiary teacher. Mormul, the history teacher. They must’ve confronted them right there, tried to talk to them. They didn’t even get to pull their weapons before they were cut down. They came during the early morning hours, when most were still asleep or just breaking their fast. They…”

His voice breaks and Vesemir has to swallow several times before he can speak again. He has buried these memories deeps inside him, in a place that only nightmares can reach.

“They left none alive. The ones who survived were us lucky few who weren’t there. A group of trainees, out on a scouting trip, the few who hadn’t decided to winter in the Keep that year. Some who were simply elsewhere. Two or three who were grievously wounded and left for dead. One young one who had hidden where they couldn’t find him. They killed all the others, from the oldest ones to the smallest boys. We had to burn them, couldn’t attract any of the necrophages. Worked day and night for three days before we were done. Their bodies were so light. I remember thinking – there had been so much life in some of them, how could their bodies be so light and frail?”

If he wanted to, he could still recite the names of every single one of them. Every single life that was lost that day. They are carved into his soul with shards of ice and blood, a constant reminder of failure.

“I never…I never stopped blaming myself for what happened that day. I would’ve died with them, if I had been there, but yet…” He shakes his head.

“How do you live with it?” Geralt’s voice is brittle and quiet.

“I don’t,” Vesemir gives a bitter laugh. “Part of me will always be stuck there, on that day. Part of me died with them. But I had to. Had to go on. Had to do something. For those that survived. Had to make sure there’d still be Wolves roaming this world, even when I was gone.”

His moves a little, shifts Geralt until he can raise his head and look at him. The traces of tears are still on Geralt’s face, his eye rimmed red, face blotchy. He puts one of his hands on Geralt’s chest, feels the reassuringly strong heartbeat below.

“I do no longer regret my survival. For without it, I wouldn’t have been able to see you and the others grow up. Wouldn’t have been able to bear witness to the fine Witchers you became. You are the best among us, no matter what happens. You cannot save them all. You can _never_ save them all.”

“But I should be able to.” Geralt’s voice is hollow. “I am a Witcher. I am meant to save them, to _protect_.”

Vesemir smiles sadly at his words. It is what they all think, before they leave on the Path. Geralt more than others, perhaps – not even the two Trials had been able to destroy the core of kindness that had slumbered inside him from the beginning. Vesemir hopes he will never lose it.

“For all those you fail, you will save two more,” he promises him. “It will never get any easier, but you are not the only one who bears this lot.” He thinks of Eskel, quiet, serious Eskel, wonders what he will see in his eyes when he returns for the winter. Should he return. The first few years on the Path are when they lose the most of them. There are so many names whose fate Vesemir has never been able to find out – bodies rotting in a bog or cave somewhere, or swinging from a gibbet, bodies that he has helped shape and guide through to adulthood, who once had a soul capable of laughter and grief.

Geralt shakes his head, ever so slightly but Vesemir hopes that his words will take root in his soul and help, given enough time.

“I never thought it would be like this. You told us, you warned us, but I didn’t-“ He bites his lip and looks away.

“Nobody does.” Vesemir sighs and offers Geralt a wet piece of cloth, to wipe his face with, and some tea from the fire he has kept going, together with one of his potions. “Here, this should help.”

Geralt hesitates for a moment before he takes both from his hands. He is still shivering, but his body has evidently already begun the arduous task of healing itself. He still avoids Vesemir’s gaze and his movements are slow and pained, but he does wash his face and downs first the potion, then takes a big sip from the tea, much to Vesemir’s relief. He takes a deep breath, ponders his next words for a second before speaking them out loud.

“Come back to Kaer Morhen with me.”

Geralt looks up at him, a frown painted all across his expression.

“Back to Kaer Morhen?” he echoes.

“To recover. To regain some balance. Help me teach some of the young ones.” Vesemir shrugs. _To find some peace before going back out on the Path_. He doesn’t say it, but the words are still there. Geralt keeps his gaze trained on his face for a moment, then looks back down at his hands, his wrists, still covered in bandages where the dimeritium shackles had flayed off his skin.

“No,” he finally says. “I can’t-“ He closes his mouth, takes a deep breath, tries again. “If I stop now, I will always be afraid,” he says, very quietly. “I’ll never be able to work off this debt. At least, if I keep going now…” His voice breaks, fades away again, and Vesemir recognises the expression in his eyes, the inward turned glance. Geralt is seeing memories play in front of his inner eye right now, not him. He waits patiently until Geralt shakes himself and comes back to reality with a slow gasp, fingers slowly uncurling where he had been balling them into fists.

“I have to keep going,” he says. “But perhaps, once winter comes…”

“There will be more than one of your brothers to share your tales with,” Vesemir nods. “And get some advice from, if you so wish.”

“Do you think Eskel will be back?” _Do you think he survived?_ is what Geralt wants to ask but doesn’t dare to.

“He’ll come back.” Witchers after their first year on the Path usually did, unless they were physically incapable. After a year alone, many of them longed to see their friends and fellow wolves again, spend the winter in company that was both safe and friendly. Eskel, as withdrawn and quiet as he usually was, nonetheless appreciated the company of his fellow Witchers. And he would want to see Geralt again, would want to know how he fared. He would be there, if he could.

Geralt nods at his reply. Vesemir hopes fervently that the prospect of seeing Eskel again will provide enough incentive for him to stay alive, to take enough care of himself that he will at least make it until winter, back home to his family.

“I’ll.” Geralt takes a deep breath. “I’ll do my best to join you.”

“Good.” Vesemir reaches out, squeezes his shoulder gently. “Your family will be waiting for you.” That, at least, pulls the ghost of a smile out of Geralt, although it doesn’t travel further than his lips for now. “For now, you should try and get more sleep.”

Geralt accepts another mug of tea with some hesitation. It takes a moment for him to curl up again, hissing softly when the movement aggravates his wounds. Vesemir sits by his side, hoping that his presence is enough to reassure his pup of his safety so he can go back to sleep.

“Vesemir.” Geralt’s voice is drowsy already, the herbs doing their work.

“Hm?” From where he is sitting, Vesemir can only see his back, the line of his shoulders seeming impossibly vulnerable and fragile to him.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers.

“Any time, boy. Any time.” Vesemir presses his hand to Geralt’s back, in between his shoulder blades, like he used to do when he had wanted to soothe the young child who had trouble sleeping. Hero or villain in people’s stories, Witcher or no, grownup or no, he will always be Vesemir’s son. And he will look after him, come whatever may.

**Author's Note:**

> So, in this scenario, the sacking of Kaer Morhen took place before Geralt's/Eskel's/Lambert's time at the Keep. Whilst enough people survived to keep the Keep going for a while, train more boys, administer the Trials and so forth, all the key people and literature for actually _creating_ the mutagens was lost, so they eventually ran out after Lambert's cohort (I also headcanon that the assistants might have tried to recreate stuff either way, leading to shoddier mutagens, and even more dead boys than usual during the Trials before Vesemir convinced Rennes to shut it down - but not before he had to acquiesce to a number of boys, including Geralt, being put through the second time. That's a story for another time though). So Vesemir just quietly gets to watch the Wolves dwindle through the years, the old mentors slowly dying and fewer and fewer of them coming home from the path, until there's only his three pups left.  
> :(


End file.
